


Meant to Be

by cynical21



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2192466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan is recuperating; Qui-Gon is trying to resist, and the padawan sees an opportunity too tempting to pass up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meant to Be

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, I couldn't write a story - ANY story - without at least a little big of angst, but this is as close as I ever come to fluff and nonsense, although it will not be to everyone's taste :).

Meant to Be

He has fallen asleep again. As he does so often - since Limaia Cameir.

He lies half reclining against a stack of the decadently plush woven kasmira pillows he discovered last year on Alderaan - pillows for which he bartered his mechanical skills, involving many hours of labor in the overhaul of a pair of pod-engines. At the time, I admit, I considered it a frivolous waste of his time and abilities, but, having since had occasion to luxuriate in the exquisite comfort of the pillows - which were, as it turned out, meant as a gift to celebrate the anniversary of my knighting - I have changed my mind. Anything which brings such delectable sensations to overworked bodies and exhausted spirits can hardly be termed a waste.

Exercising all the discretion and silent skill of a Jedi Master, I move toward him, closing the door behind me, and finally, stand staring down at a vision of loveliness that almost takes my breath away.

Gentle golden drops of sunlight kiss his face, reflected through the sprays of delicate foliage of the primmet tree that drapes its elegance across the half- roof of our terrace, striking glints of russet and gold from his hair; even the thick sweep of his lashes are brushed with the gleam of ginger, as they flutter against the cream of his skin.

The structure of his face is perfect - there is no other word that is appropriate - from the expanse of his brow, the taut cheekbones, the sweet symmetry of his nose, the strength of his jawline, and - oh, yes - that chin; that marvelous, delectable, intricately, imminently, unbearably tempting chin, with the cleft that begs to be caressed.

All of this, and I haven't even begun to address the magic of those eyes, concealed now beneath trembling lids. Nor have I allowed my gaze to drift southward, cataloging the perfect body that complements the perfect face.

I can't. I don't dare. I barely dare to breathe, as I stand looking down at him.

It's almost two full lunar rotations since I brought him back from Limaia Cameir - barely alive, clinging to me more than to life itself - a limp, broken body whose only connection to life was the fading link that connected us to each other. In looking back, I have come to believe that he only stayed here - among the living - because I begged him not to leave me.

I begged him, because I had learned something in the moment that I pulled him from the grip of the apparatus in which the primitive Force-users had sealed him.

I had never had an epiphany before, and still, today, I wonder at that. It seems foolish - ridiculous to make such a claim. Who, after all, could go through so much of life - and not just any life, but Jedi life, with all its rich twists and ironies and moments of realization and understanding - without experiencing at least some small revelations. Yet, it remains true. I had never been confronted with an overwhelming, unadulterated, irresistible moment of epiphany - until I looked down at his face and just knew.

What I should have known long ago. What, I think, he knew, although he never mentioned it.

Still, I hope I'm right. I hope he knew. I hope he still knows, although I'm less sure of that.

None of us know yet, what they took from him. Even he doesn't know, because he can't remember.

They closed him up in their primitive device, and I - in my arrogance and the overweaning confidence of one brought up among technological miracles - failed to understand the threat they posed; failed to realize the depth of their attachment to their own version of the Force.

I stood by, trying to reason with them; trying to avoid bloodshed and enmity. And they drained away his life, in increments, and, with it, his Force strength.

He almost died. My Obi-Wan almost died, while I dithered with diplomacy.

And I only knew it when he slumped into my arms, a shell of the vibrant young man he had been, and looked up at me with those luminous, enchanting eyes. I knew then what my dithering had cost, and I knew something else, something that took away my capacity to breathe - or think - or act.

The epiphany.

In my arms, I held my beloved. The one who had pushed his way into my heart and would never relinquish his hold on me. The one who had claimed my soul as his own, even if he no longer knew it.

My Obi-Wan. My beloved. The boy who had refused to allow me to push him away had become the man who held my heart . I loved my padawan. More than that. I was _in_ love with my padawan.

Epiphany, indeed.

He was twenty-one years old - a child no longer - and I marveled at what he had become and at my own willful foolishness.

And now, here I stand, gazing down at that face that is so beautiful, it cuts me like a blade, quickening a painful awareness within me - a sense of knowing that nothing will ever again be quite so lovely, or touch me quite so sharply.

Still falling asleep in the midst of his studies, as he fights to regain what the primitive tribes of Limaia Cameir took from him - what I allowed them to take from him. In the name of Jedi serenity. In the arrogance of Jedi certainty.

I almost lost him, and it has shaken me to the depths of my soul.

The healers claim that time and perseverance will restore all that was taken from him, but I wonder. Oh, I don't doubt that his Force abilities will return to him; with every day that passes I marvel at the increasing depth of his connection to the Force, and his facility in using it. If anything, he may be even stronger than he was before. That, I'm told, is entirely possible, as he is being taught biofeedback methods and mental disciplines to enable him to tap into his latent abilities - disciplines that are not normally a part of Jedi training as they are not usually required. But, to minimize the damage done to him, these skills have been taught to him, and Master Yoda, in a rare moment of whimsy, remarked that he hoped we were not creating a monster who would one day swallow us all.

I smile as I look down at him. He doesn't look like a monster. He looks like every dream I've ever had. Every desire that ever touched me.

Everything I could ever want - and cannot have.

He will regain all his strengths - all his abilities, with time. These are tangible skills; even measurable to some degree.

It is what cannot be measured that concerns me.

From the earliest days of our association, my padawan was capable of something that I could never quite master, even under the best of circumstances. Obi- Wan was able to give his trust completely - without reservation, without doubt, without a second thought. He gave that trust to me. And I, in my arrogance, betrayed it, and allowed him to suffer for it.

He will regain everything he lost, they tell me, but they cannot know. Nor can I, and, probably, nor can he. I know that he trusts me still; I can see it in the depths of those incredible eyes, but I cannot see how pure it is, or how deep it runs. I cannot see if there is a point at which a memory of betrayal will rise up and erect a barrier that I will never be able to breach.

I cannot tell what I may have lost, although I do know what I can never have.

He is my apprentice; my student; my responsibility. Never - my lover.

It cannot be, and I know that, even if it were not forbidden, it would still never be. He is all that is young and beautiful and desirable.

Sometimes, I watch him walk toward me from across a room, and I see the eyes that turn to follow him, eyes filled with yearning, with wanting, eyes that burn with naked lust, and I must school myself to avoid allowing that same hunger to be reflected in my own expression.

He need do no more than express a desire, and he can have anyone he wants. Anyone: padawan, knight, or Master. The hunger for him is nothing if not democratic; it crosses all class - and even some biological - barriers. I am told, by reliable sources, that there is even an ongoing contest between the Codru-ji and twi'lek contingents of the Temple population, to see who will bed him first. So far - if rumor can be trusted - neither has succeeded, but not for lack of effort.

Therefore, it only stands to reason. Given the wealth of beautiful young bodies that constantly dance around him, brushing against him at every opportunity, delivering seductive messages that know nothing of subtlety or restraint, why would he spare a single thought or a single glance for a man long past the blush of youth; a man easily old enough to be his father?

No. It will never be - and yet . . .

My hand trembles, and I fight to resist the urge to reach out and stroke that lovely jawline.

He begins to move against his pillows, a fine sheen of perspiration forming on his upper lip. He is dreaming, and I am suddenly uncomfortable, feeling like a voyeur caught in the act.

I start to turn away, when a whispered word catches me - and I am lost.

"Master!"

It's nothing, of course. He's dreaming. Perhaps he's back on Limaia Cameir, calling for me to make them stop what they're doing.

A sudden image flares to life in my mind; he is caged and immobilized against a wall, a glaring light illuminating the creamy whiteness of his body. They have stripped away his garments, and he wears only a loincloth riding low on his waist, and intricate woven bracelets of liquid silver around his biceps and his thighs. There is no evidence of any instrument effecting his body; no sign of trauma or blood or injury; yet tears are welling from his eyes. "It hurts, Master," he is whispering. "It hurts."

And I am holding on to my serenity, being reasonable, bargaining for his release.

I shake my head abruptly, to dispel that image.

"Master!" He says it again, and there's a note of urgency in it now.

Perhaps he's revisiting Bandomeer, where he offered his life for me without a moment's hesitation; perhaps he's reliving our confrontation on Melida/Daan; the one in which I turned and left him, condemning the softness of a heart that could not turn away from the need of those he perceived as hurt and helpless. He was right - at least, he was as right as he was wrong - and I left him there, abandoned him because he was too young and too giving to exercise mature judgment. Or maybe, he's gone back to Telos - back to where he followed me, in spite of the disapproval of the Council, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me as I faced my worst nightmare. Xanatos. Without him, I would not have survived the day.

Or maybe he's standing at my side as I say my last farewell to Tahl - suppressing his own sense of loss and pain to offer comfort for mine. Giving everything he has for me. And, even in the self-imposed solitary confinement of my grief, I understand that he is more than I deserve. More than anyone could ever deserve.

Where are you, my Obi? And why do you call my name so gently?

He's trembling now, and it's time to stop this. I've failed him many times, but I won't stand by and surrender him to the grip of nightmare.

I lean forward, and place my hand on his shoulder. "Padawan."

And suddenly, he swarms up toward me, his arms reaching, grasping, holding - tightening.

"Don't let me go," he says, obviously panicked. "Don't let me go."

Helpless to resist, my arms slip around him, holding him still, holding him close.

"Never, Padawan. I'll never let you . . ."

But I can't finish my assurance because his mouth is suddenly pressed to mine, his lips soft and parted and begging to be tasted and plundered.

And I . . . try to pull away. I . . . must not . . .

But he tastes - oh, by all the little gods, he tastes of a sweetness beyond imagination, with just the faintest trace of a spice that I know, instinctively, is uniquely Obi-Wan. His arms slide up around my neck, and he molds himself against me. And the velvet texture of his skin is instantly addictive; instantly, incredibly erotic.

As he clings to me, a gentle, sweet little moan rises in his throat - and I am lost.

I know I should not - can not - must not. It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters, but the incredible loveliness clasped tight against me.

I break the kiss finally, and pull back, knowing I must see the look in his eyes.

He is smiling, and it takes my breath away.

"Obi-Wan," I whisper, knowing it must be said, wanting only to reclaim those luscious lips, swollen now from the press of my passion, "we mustn't . . .."

"No," he says firmly. "It's time, my Master, to live in the moment. Don't you feel it."

I sigh. "All I can feel - is you, my padawan."

A tiny flash of mischief flares in aquamarine depths. "Don't you want me, Master? Should I go fetch Garen for you or Reeft? What about Vischox - although I don't know about that? Even you might not be big enough for a wookiee. But there's always . . ."

"Obi-Wan," I interrupt, with an exaggerated deep breath. "You're babbling."

"Yes, I am. With delirium, I think."

I look down at him and prepare to transform myself into my Stern Master mode, when he makes it impossible by burying his face in my throat, and beginning to nibble and kiss and suck, and I . . . search for the right words. "Obi-Wan, we must not . . ."

"Master," he murmurs - between nibbles - "reach out. The Force is speaking to us. Listen to it."

As he latches on to a particularly sensitive spot - just below my collarbone - I cannot suppress a tremor. "Padawan, this is forbidden."

And, with a great effort - the greatest effort probably ever made by any Jedi, anywhere, under any circumstances, in the entire history of the Jedi order - I push him away, fully expecting him to accept my judgment and, perhaps, to exhibit some semblance of remorse.

Instead, he rises and stands quietly, smiling up at me.

"Obi-Wan!" There is definitely a warning in my tone, but only because he has succeeded in completely confusing me. Where is my obedient, biddable padawan?

Nowhere in evidence, I realize, as I note that my apprentice is now displaying the posture - and the attitude - of a predator, stalking its prey.

He steps forward as he begins to speak. "I have been meditating, my Master. Considering all things great and small - the nature of the universe; the conflict between good and evil; the morality of abstinence, the torment of hunger, unfulfilled. I have opened myself to the Force and asked for guidance. And guidance has come to me, Master. I have seen the Light."

"What do you mean?" I ask, barely able to breathe as he is now standing directly before me again, and I am assaulted by the scent of him, and the sense of him.

"Open yourself," he whispers. "Please. Feel what I feel. Please, my Master! If you love me. If you ever loved me."

"I . .. . "

"Do you deny it?" he demands, his breath warm against my throat. "Will you deny your love for me?"

And I open my mouth to do exactly that. His knighthood, I tell myself, is all that matters; I will not sacrifice that, no matter what. I will not . . . 

As his hands slip inside the neck of my tunic, and begin to caress my chest. It is but a moment before I feel his lips close over my nipple, and I find I cannot think beyond the incredible sensation and the sight, as I look down, of his beloved face and that astonishing mouth suckling against me.

I moan helplessly, and I think I hear him chuckle softly as I find myself suddenly reclining against those silken pillows, as he straddles me and continues to work at my breast, as if he were a hungry newborn. Oh, Force, a Jedi should not know such ecstasy, lest he be unable to ever pull away from it.

His hands are still busy, and my tunics are finally fully open, allowing him easier access, so he switches to the other nipple, having thoroughly decimated the first.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, "and I will. If you really mean it, I will stand up and walk away and never mention this again, but you must speak now."

And something inside me is screaming that I must do as he says. I must, but I . . .

I feel his smile against me. "Then tell me the truth," he murmurs as he nuzzles against me. "I want to hear you say it."

"Padawan," I begin, barely coherent, "we must not . . ."

Brazenly, decisively, he _bites_ me - hard enough to draw blood, I think, though he instantly laves the laceration with his tongue, leaving me writhing with even greater need.

Then he pulls back, and the lust in his eyes strikes fire in my loin.

"I love you," he says softly. "I've loved you forever, and I'm not a child any more. And I know that you love me. But I want to hear it. I've earned the right to hear it. So say it for me. Please."

"Obi-Wan, your knighthood," I say swiftly, while I still can.

His smile is quick. "Fuck my knighthood."

And I try to push him away then, but he is ready for me.

"If I can't have you," he breathes, "my knighthood means nothing to me. I don't care about tomorrow. I don't care about the rules. I want you to love me - in every way. Now. This minute. I want you to take this body and make it yours, as it's always been yours."

"Padawan, I . . ."

His voice drops to a whisper as he stretches out atop me, allowing me, for the first time, to feel the hardness between his legs - the hardness that matches my own. "I want you to make love to me, Master. I want you to kiss me, and touch me. I want to take your cock into my mouth, and suck you until you cry out. And I want to fuck your mouth at the same time - to feel you suck me. And then, I want you to push your fingers into my body and make me ready. And, when I'm ready, I want you to shove your cock into my ass, and fill me up with you. It's all for you; it's always been for you. I want you to fuck me then, Master - fuck me until I scream your name, and I want you to explode inside me. Please, Master. I'm yours; I'll always be yours. Listen to me, and listen to the Force. It's singing for us, Master. This - is meant to be."

I am not really listening; I do not really grasp his meaning, but something within me is yelling at me to stop acting like a martyred idiot and seize the day.

This is wrong, I tell myself. I should stop this. This is not what should be happening.

But I can't remember why. I also can't remember where we are - or how we got here - and I doubt that I could even remember my name, at the moment.

He's that good with his mouth, and, oh, my, I think I don't want to know how he got that good. If he's had a lot of practice - which seems fairly certain - I don't think I want to know about it.

Clothes are tossed aside quickly, and I take just a moment to note how the sunlight loves his lithe, strong body, but there is little time for such thoughts.

His lips trail down from my throat, stopping once more to reawaken the nubs of my nipples, before continuing his journey. He is discovering pleasure points that I never knew existed, and it's uncertain whether or not they were always there, though undiscovered, or whether they have simply sprung into existence because it's my beloved Obi-Wan who is doing the exploring.

When he nuzzles at the exquisitely sensitive area on the inside of my thigh, I groan softly and decide that it's time to demonstrate that two can play this game.

He protests loudly when I grab him and pull him back up so that we are once again face to face. And I proceed to devour that luscious mouth, while my hands map out the body that I know so well, so intimately, though I have never known it in this context.

Oh, the taste of him - the feel of him - the unique sense of my Obi-Wan. He is a feast for the senses, and I find that I am consumed with hunger.

With a deep, delighted laugh, I use the Force to flip us over and devour him with my eyes.

"I love your eyes," I say softly, dropping gentle kisses on his closed lids, "and your nose," - more kisses - "and, oh, my yes, that chin," - that requires a great many kisses - "and your throat."

I work my way down his body, much to his delight, and he is torn between appreciative laughter and shuddering breaths of overwhelming desire.

By the time I reach his groin, he is writhing with need. Well - they don't call me a Jedi Master for nothing, you know.

His magnificent cock is rock-hard and pulsing with barely-controlled need, as I slowly lick my way up the underside of it, and swirl my tongue around the head, lapping up the droplets of pre-cum that are dripping from it. In the meantime, my fingers have found the treasure of his testicles, and knead them gently - but not too gently.

"Master," he hisses, back arched and head thrown back - a magnificent sight. "If you don't get to the point, you're going to have to start all over."

I laugh. "Not such a bad idea, Padawan, but you will not come, until I allow it. Understood?"

He moans and tosses his head from side to side. "Please."

And, of course, that does it. No matter how much I might wish to tease my delectable lover, I would never resist that plea.

From a nearby drawer, I call a small bottle of massage oil to me.

"Obi-Wan," I say softly, "you must tell me the truth. Have you done this before?"

He sighs. "No, Master. Not this." He raises his head and looks down at me with a saucy grin. "I've never been a bottom."

I smile. "Then perhaps you'd prefer to . . ."

His expression is priceless, as a look of horror crosses his face. "Absolutely not," he answers, almost outraged. "Are you nuts?"

"I was simply trying to . . ."

"Have you?" he demands.

I shake my head. "No, but I would do anything for you, my love, and I don't wish to cause you pain."

Now it's his turn to smile, very gently. "Most things worth having come with a little price tag. Please, Master. I want this, and so do you - and it's meant to be. Please."

I find that I need no more urging; in fact, if I'm totally honest, I must admit that I'm not sure I could stop myself, even if he asked. Although I hope I would.

But desire is reaching a point of no return.

Gently, in spite of his protest, I turn him onto his belly. He wants to see, but I am determined not to hurt him any more than is necessary. There will be some pain, and I know that he knows that, but the idea is for the pleasure to overwhelm the painful sensation.

When I drizzle the sweet, slick massage oil down the cleft of his buttocks, he shivers deliciously, and I am so overwhelmed with need that it requires all of my strength to refrain from simply slicking my cock and plunging into the sweet tightness of his body.

But I do not, for I want him to burn as I burn; to explode as I explode; to fall into the depths of ecstasy as we are joined together.

When I insert one finger into the puckered opening of his body, he stiffens slightly - and draws a deep breath.

"Try to relax, my darling," I murmur. "We will do nothing more until you are ready."

But I am quickly disabused of any thought that he might wish to reconsider. In just moments, he is writhing against my finger, trying to force me deeper. With a gentle laugh, I push into him with a second finger and begin to stretch him, and to search for that special spot - the prostate - that will trigger an almost electrical response within him.

I find it and am transfixed as he almost lights up, hissing and stiffening slightly. "Oh, Master," he moans, "please hurry. I can't last much . . ."

Another finger, and I also use the Force to stretch him, and to ease muscles that instinctively tighten against intrusion.

Finally, after an eternity, I slick the remaining oil on my cock, and position myself at his entrance. "Slowly, my love," I whisper, as I push forward, and feel the ring of muscle slip around me. Oh, gods, he's so tight - the tightest I've ever known - and soft and slick as the finest silk.

"Oooohhh," he breathes, discovering sensations he's never known - never even dreamed.

"Slowly," I repeat, inching forward, using all my vaunted Jedi resolve to keep myself from plunging into him, as my body demands.

But I fail to take his eagerness - and his will - into account. With a smooth twist, worthy of the finest courtesan, he lifts his ass and pushes, and I am suddenly buried in his velvet heat and wordless with the incredible pleasure of it.

He moans softly, and I sense that he has met the pain - the feeling of being torn and plundered - but it is subsiding quickly beneath the sensation of fullness and the pleasure of friction against tender tissue.

"Padawan?" I will not hurt him, even if it means . . .

"Don't you dare," he says through gritted teeth. "Don't you dare even think about pulling out of me. Move, dammit. Move, now!"

And I do, knowing that the mounting pleasure will nullify the pain.

And it does.

As I reach beneath him, and take his velvet cock in my hand, he is becoming incapable of speech, gasping for breath, and grunting with pleasure, thrusting his pulsating cock into my grasping fingers and then, rising up to impale himself on my shaft, as I slam into his narrow channel, my balls slapping against the silken expanse of his ass.

It is unlike anything I have ever experienced.

It is sex - most assuredly - but I've had sex before.

It was never like this.

And I suddenly understand why. Within the bond that joins us, I am both penetrated - and penetrator. Just as I feel the fantastic pressure of his passage pulsing around me, I feel the thrust of a penis filling my body.

We are not simply joined body-to-body, but mind-to-mind.

And he laughs up at me. "And soul-to-soul," he whispers.

I consider being angry, but it seems a bit ludicrous when I'm about to empty my seed into that luscious, gorgeous, perfect ass. So finally - I laugh.

"We're going to have," I pant, searching for breath, "a hell of a time" - more panting - "explaining this."

"Who cares?" he manages, feeling the rush grip him as it grips me.

And I slam into him twice more and squeeze his cock in tandem, and feel myself erupt into his heat, as he screams my name and explodes in my hand.

Our orgasms begin physically, then translate into our shared consciousness, and go on - and on - and on.

Finally, overcome with shared sensations, we both settle ourselves more comfortably, and fall into semi-consciousness, with my cock still sheathed in his body.

When I waken, a short time later, he has twisted his body until he is able to look up at me, those incredible luminous eyes aglow with warmth and contentment.

"You're beautiful," I say gently, "in case I've never told you."

He laughs. "It's probably just the afterglow."

"The afterglow?"

He nods. "From being well and thoroughly fucked."

I trace his lips with my fingers. "You knew, didn't you?" I hope I don't sound angry, for I'm not, although I am slightly perplexed.

He nods. "And I tried to tell you, if you recall. You just didn't listen."

I smile. "I was too preoccupied with the comely shape of your perfect little ass."

And now, he grins, before sobering. "A perfect little ass, which now belongs to you - for the rest of our lives. I . . . should have made you listen, shouldn't I? If this is not what you want, there are ways . . ."

I place my hand across his mouth and smile. "The Force - and my oh-so-clever padawan - have just conspired to initiate a soul bond between us, and you are now asking me if I wish to have it dissolved. Oh, Little Love, a soul bond cannot form against the will of the bonded. Don't you know that?"

"But you didn't actually get the chance to object," he insisted. Oh, my stubborn, beautiful padawan, eternally prepared to sacrifice his desires - for me.

"Point taken," I agree. "So let me see. Perhaps you think I should be angry? Should demand my freedom? Should have you beaten and flogged?"

"Well," he replies, seeing the light in my eyes, "I don't know that I'd go that far. But . . ."

"I hope," I say quickly, "that you're not trying to back out of this arrangement. I would hate to have to punish my soulmate, for dereliction of duty."

"Punish?" he echoes, grinning. "Now that sounds interesting. What do you have in mind?"

"Ummm, perhaps I should just tie you to the bed, and have my way with you."

"Um, I believe you just did that," he answers. "But if you're planning to fuck me til I can't walk - well . . . I can still walk, Master!"

I sigh happily. "Have I ever told you how much I love it when you call me 'Master'? It's very erotic."

He wriggles under me, and, impossibly, I feel a stirring in my groin. "Really, Master? Well, Master, I can keep this up all night, Master. The question is, Master - can you?"

I lean forward to claim his lips, already addicted to his taste.

"You know," he says softly, when we come up for breath, "the Council is not going to be happy with us. I mean, I know they can't deny a soul-bond, but they're going to be really pissed that we did this without their consent."

"Um hmm," I answer, exploring his throat with tongue and teeth.

He laughs. "Is that all you have to say?"

I lift my head and am instantly lost in the sea-change depths of his eyes. "No. Actually, I do have one more thing to say."

"And that would be?" He trembles as my fingers find his nipples, and his hands wander to the bare expanse of my ass, kneading and stroking.

"Fuck the Council."

"Eeeeyoooo, Master!" he laughs. "Not in this lifetime."

Fini


End file.
